Carson has never known pain like this. Not when they'd all discovered his shame as a man of the stage. Not when Lady Grantham had miscarried the heir. Not even when dear lady Sybil died.

It isn't that the pain itself is more intense, it's that it's of a different sort. As he watches her there, gently swaying in her simple but elegant frock, it feels like there's ice gripping his heart, like he'll never be able to breathe deeply again, like he knows exactly what it is to waste a chance.

Joe's arms are firm around her, one hand grasping hers (so soft, so delicate) the other at her waist, gripping her slightly (just so, just how he'd like to).

It's his own fault, really. He'd been too slow. Too harsh and cowardly and obtuse. He hasn't seen what's been right in front of him.

When Joe leans in to whisper in her ear, and whatever he says makes her laugh that pretty, tinkling laugh, he's sure there's nothing left of the sorry organ that was once his sure and beating heart.

It's the sort of pain that's so deep he can't separate it from himself, can't get enough objectivity to analyze it fully or even feel it properly. It is now as much a part of him as breathing or blinking; he can no more stop it than he can stop his heart beating.

He hopes, of course, she's happy now; has gotten what she wanted, what he couldn't give her - at least not in time.

And, oh, but he is kicking himself, all but tearing himself to shreds internally because he can't be sure, isn't one hundred percent positive that there wasn't something else he could have done; that she'd wanted from him. He can't quite convince himself that he wasn't supposed to do or say something when she'd told him of her decision; when she'd gazed at him with that watery smile that didn't touch her eyes. He has seen those stunning blue eyes dance with mirth, has seen the young maids quirk her lips, Mrs. Patmore make her giggle. He has seen joy in her, at least he thinks he has, and it was conspicuously missing in that moment. It was something that had been missing since. He can't help but feel he's missed it, whatever it is, once again, and he can't bear it - tries to shake his thoughts away.

But even as Joe pulls her close to him, too close really, for propriety's sake, for this world she has so gracefully occupied, risen in, so foreign to him and his ruffian ways, and she laughs again, and her tongue pokes out to dampen her lips, there is something broken about it.

His trimmed, clean nails bite into his palm.

He wonders if she will ever let Joe see all of her, really. Not in the biblical sense, because he has no doubt she'll lay with him; it is possible she already has. Maybe when they were young, maybe then again when he'd waltzed into their lives and stolen her away, but he wonders if his affection will be the balm that soothes whatever hurt this is she's nursing, whatever it is she's declined to say. Either way, this man, this rough, farmer's son, has or will taste her sharp tongue, which is more than he can, will ever, say. And there's something to be said for that. Something to be said for the wholeness of what she shares with him.

He finds he doesn't have the energy to feel angry; hasn't since she'd told him. He'd been shocked, couldn't have been more so if she'd told him she was off to become a dancing girl. He only asks himself the same questions over and over - What? Why? How? More specifically, how could he have been so stupid? Why hadn't he thrown it all to hell to begin with? Why did he wait so long? And most importantly, how could she have not understood that it was always supposed to be the two of them, Elsie and Charlie, in the end?

The realization that he shouldn't be so shocked, that he'd never made his intentions clear, that he'd made the fatal mistake of assuming they'd fall into step, side by side, as they had for so many years, only hits him later, when he's laying in his attic bedroom in the dead of night, and even though he can't see them, he knows the stars are winking out one by one.

He watches her now as she clutches at Joe's shoulder, her nails biting in gently to the tweed of his jacket, and to his utter shame and aggravation he feels tears prick his eyes, a heated mist rising, welling up and blurring his vision.

He fixes his vision on his shoes and prays this will be over soon. This dreaded day, this tortuous evening. He wants it, her, done and gone because he can't — he really can't take this anymore.

She hasn't looked at him all day.

Not once.

Not that she should, but still, he was her friend, and she hasn't spared him a glace at all. Not when she entered the church, a solitary gleaming figure of strength and beauty and grace beyond comprehension, not when she'd put her stern and capable (but so delicate, so achingly pretty and feminine) hand in the crook of Joe's arm and emerged into a shower of rice and streamers and petals as his wife.

His wife.

Carson heaves a strangled sigh, ignores the shaking heat of his breath.

He's not sure how he feels about her studiously avoiding his gaze. Isn't sure if he's glad of it or if he's moments away from rushing them on the dance floor, taking her (beautiful, so effortlessly pretty and sweet and desirable) face in his hands and forcing her solemn gaze upon him.

He watches her spin and twirl and his fists clench and unclench, reaching, grasping at thin air.

He wishes he'd at least kissed her once. Perhaps at Christmas or New Year's or in one of those many heavy, heated moments when they lingered in the hall after all the others had toddled off to bed, their eyes caught too long, their bodies too close. Bone-tired, aching, exhausted, he still would have had her, anywhere she wanted, any thing she wanted, if things were different, if he'd moved faster and she'd given him some sort of sign.

But no, that wouldn't have done.

He has always known, as well as she, that she is trapped, more-so than he, or any male under their roof, or any silly young housemaid lallygagging in the village after church.

She is an example. She is bound by the expectations of her title, their sensibilities, their world. She is bound and tied with string and plucked by the fingers of nobility and propriety. A beautiful marionette. There is no free movement for her here, every twitch a risk. All the keys on her intricate chatelaine couldn't unlock the doors of the space she is expected to take up.

If she'd made an advance, if she had been bold and hot and sweet, if he'd blustered, bellowed, breathed a word, her ties could easily snap, be snipped, tangled, caught up. She could lose everything in the nip of his teeth on her skin.

And he, well, he had been foolish enough to believe they had time, that he could help her come untied bit by bit, together with him, until all that was left was the two of them and their loose ends, their hanging strings.

But maybe he's being silly now, a bit too imaginative. Perhaps he's had too much to drink.

But still, there's something to it, to the thought of her alone, strung up and waiting. He'd never considered how lonely she must have been, all cooped up and bound, until Joe had come to save her.

Joe and his farm, and his rough, calloused hands, his ruddy face and receding hairline, and he, Carson, standing there stupid, dumbstruck, as Joe deftly cut her ties, promised her all he never could.

He thinks Joe must be happy now, has gotten all he wanted and more, but she's not looking at him either — not that he notices as he cuddles her close, continues to spin her in wide, artless circles around the dance floor.

She is looking over his shoulder, smiling politely at her guests or at the floor or toward the door, and he wonders if even surrounded by all these well-wishers, with a man in her arms, if Elsie Hughes is still lonely.

The blue of her eyes has begun to look black in the candlelight of the hall, her grip on Joe's shoulders has loosened and he is, for all intents and purposes holding her up, swaying her prone form around the floor, and she's looking so strange, so somber and glum, be he could be imagining it.

He hopes he is because he truly wants her to have what she wants and if he cannot give it to her, then by god someone should, even if it is this roughneck of a man who doesn't deserve her.

Carson doesn't know what he's still doing here. The hall has gradually emptied to just a few of them now. Him, the happy couple, a few family friends (on Joe's side), and the band. He can't count how many cups of punch he's had or the seconds he's been watching them (her), but it seems like an eternity more before she gently pulls, pushes, extricates herself from the grasp of her husband (he wants to spit the word, tear it, hates himself for even thinking of its reality) whispers something to him, and excuses herself out a side door.

Joe is smiling to himself, has clapped his hands happily in front of his rounded (not any more than Carson's if he's feeling fair, which he isn't), rotund belly and coughs a laugh. The friends that have lingered raise their glasses in his honor and he strides toward them, all pomp and pride, which is warranted, Carson thinks, but still lacking for the great fortune this man has stumbled upon in making Elsie his wife.

Charles watches them laugh and clap Joe's back for a moment before a reckless thought overcomes him.

He throws back the rest of his punch, saccharine and strong, perhaps spiked with rum or some other sweet liquor, and follows her outside.

He finds her there in the half-light of the hall and the moon, clutching her hands around her shoulders and looking so endearingly small, he can't help but smile.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Hughes," he chokes out because he can't, won't say the other. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if he's lucky.

He'll address all his letters (for they've promised to stay in touch) to Elsie. Damn the impropriety of not gaining her permission first.

She turns slightly and the moon lights her from behind, giving her an ethereal glow she didn't need to appear magical to him.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." She whispers, but it's all wrong again — her voice, her expression. He doesn't understand, can't will himself to when it would be too easy - too easy and right to assume she's unhappy, second-guessing herself, and to get caught up in his own desires - to sweep her away, take her for himself as is only right and good and proper and all, god, all that he desires.

And he's shaking now in his repression, restraint, in swallowing the insane desire he has to touch her hair, run his fingers along the line of her shoulders, neck, to trace her features in the chill of the night air.

She shivers under his gaze as if he'd spoken aloud, and in another place, another time (twelve hours ago? less?) he would have given her his jacket to keep warm; would have reveled in the idea of it smelling of her for days after.

But this is not then and she is not his to warm.

"I am going to miss you." He says, stunned by his own loose lips, crisp honesty.

Her eyes squeeze shut. He can see it from the corner of his eye as they stand there side by side and he thinks he hears her whisper on a sighed breath something that sounds close to "god, please don't" and he doesn't know what he's done, but he doesn't want to risk doing it again so he doesn't do anything at all. He looks out at the silvery grass, at his shoes, and the blue-grey of it all and says nothing.

It is her that slides her pinky against his own, her that tangles their fingers, her who brings their joined hands to her lips, her who wets his knuckles with her tears, her who tells him so softly that she will miss him too, more than words can say.

It is her who ghosts her lips across his gripping fingers, who breaths hot and warm along his skin, who maybe only means to lick her lips but catches the edge of his ring finger as she cuddles their hands close.

He is barely breathing, is stunned, as always, by this brilliant, strained creature as she gasps and cries and traces little patterns with her lips and teeth across their skin, and there's no mistaking the intentionality of her actions now, but he has no idea what's going on.

He is straining himself, is aching and puffing and on the edge of something that can't be defined - they are toeing that well-worn line again and he doesn't know, is too foggy to understand if what she, they, are doing is improper or not because more than anything it's devastating, it is hurting and crushing, and deeply sad.

But it is something else too. Something just there, beneath the surface, something that would bubble up, over, if either of them were to lightly scratch, to run manicured or well-trimmed nail over the surface and look, but, as ever, they don't. And now, he is reminded, like a punch in the gut, a slap to his face so sharp he wonders for a moment if she's actually slapped him, they cannot - could not look if they wanted to because surely that would be beyond improper. It would be a sin.

Thou shall not covet thy neighbors wife.

Still, it is her, not he, who pulls away, and he can see it now, in her face, the desperate loneliness he never recognized before when they were sharing wine or checking ledgers, and he wonders what she will do with it now. If she will let it lie with Joe, as she does, or if she will hold it, carry it, bring it with her wherever she goes.

He wonders if she will find a place to set it down.

He wonders, as he watches her sad eyes, hears her soft goodbye echoed on his own lips, if he can follow her to that place if she finds it. Knows, with an aching certainty, that deals the final blow, that even now he'd follow her anywhere.

Carson stands alone, in the blue light of the moon, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and weeps.